36. TRUTH
AAROHI:
I come out of the bathroom slowly. The floor feels cold under my feet, even through the carpet. My body is lighter than last night, the pain dulled, not gone, but manageable. My head still feels heavy, like sleep hasn't fully left me.
He's standing near the window, phone in his hand, looking outside. Snow is falling gently beyond the glass, slow and silent, like the world is holding its breath. Before I can say anything, he turns. "Get ready," he says. "We're going to a doctor."
I blink. "But..." My voice is still soft and unsure. "I'm okay now." He doesn't argue. He doesn't raise his voice. "I still want to," he says firmly. "And don't wear a saree."
The last words make me pause. I nod quickly. "Okay." I don't ask questions. I don't resist. A part of me is relieved, relieved that I don't have to pretend I'm fine.
I change into warm clothes, a sweater, loose pants, socks. I tie my hair back clumsily, fingers stiff from the cold. When I step out again, he's already wearing his coat. We leave the room together.
Outside, the cold hits my face instantly. Snowflakes fall from the sky like tiny feathers, landing on my hair, my eyelashes, melting against my skin. The world is white and quiet, mountains wrapped in mist, trees standing still like they're listening.
I pull my shawl tighter around myself. He opens the car door for me. The drive is short. The resort staff had recommended a local doctor, someone who lives nearby, who knows the area, who understands bodies shaped by cold and scarcity.
The clinic is small and warm. It smells faintly of antiseptic and herbs. The doctor is a woman, middle aged, with gentle eyes. She smiles at me. "Come, beta. Sit."
I sit on the examination chair, hands folded tightly in my lap. Veeransh stands a little to the side, arms crossed, watching everything with quiet intensity. The doctor checks my pulse, my temperature, my blood pressure.
She asks questions. "How long have you had this kind of pain during periods?" I hesitate. "Since always," I whisper. She looks up sharply. "Always?" I nod.
She asks about my food habits, my sleep, my childhood illnesses. She hums thoughtfully, scribbling notes. Then she sighs. "Your pain isn't normal," she says gently. "It's not just period cramps. Your body is weak from long term nutritional deficiency."
She turns to Veeransh. "She lacks iron, calcium, protein, fiber, basic nutrients. This doesn't happen in one or two years. This is from the beginning. From childhood."
My fingers tighten. The doctor looks back at me. "You didn't get proper food when you were growing, did you?" My throat tightens. I shake my head slowly.
She continues, "Periods become unbearable when the body is already fighting weakness. I'll give her medicines and supplements. If she feels better during this cycle, that's good. But if the pain continues even after periods, she must get a sonography done."
Veeransh nods. His jaw is tight. "She'll follow everything," he says. The doctor hands me a strip of tablets and a prescription. "Eat properly," she tells me softly. "Rest. And no stress."
I nod again. Outside, snow has thickened. The car heater hums softly as we drive back. For a few minutes, neither of us speaks. Then he asks quietly, "Did you have any sickness from childhood?"
I stare at my hands. "Yes," I say after a moment. He doesn't push. Just waits. "When I was small, my father died." The words feel heavy, even now.
"After that, mumma and I lived in an abandoned house," I continue, voice low. "No electricity. No water sometimes." He grips the steering wheel slightly tighter.
"Mumma went to work in other people's houses," I say. "Cleaning. Washing. Sometimes cooking. She brought food when she could." I swallow. "My dadi threw us out after papa died," I say quietly. "Said we were a burden. Said girls bring bad luck."
He doesn't interrupt. "We lived with homeless people for some time," I continue. "In tents. Our tent was always at the end." I smile faintly, bitterly. "Sometimes mumma brought food. Sometimes she didn't."
My voice trembles now. "So we ate once in three days." The car slows slightly. "When I was a child," I say, "a doctor aunty told mumma my voice and my health might never change properly."
Silence fills the car. Snow keeps falling. I don't look at him. I don't know what his face looks like. But for the first time, I don't feel scared telling the truth.
I just feel tired. And strangely lighter. As if saying it out loud has loosened something that's been choking me since childhood.
VEERANSH:
I don't speak for a long time after she finishes. The car keeps moving, tires cutting softly through snow, windshield wipers brushing away what keeps falling from the sky. Everything outside looks pure, white and untouched.
Inside me, something is breaking. Once in three days. A child eating once in three days. I clench my jaw so hard it hurts.
All this time, every rule, every punishment, every order, I kept telling myself one thing, she is fine. She has food now. Shelter. Doctors. Comfort. But what if the damage was already done long before she ever entered my life?
I glance at her, just for a second. She's looking out of the window, eyes unfocused, as if she's watching something that only she can see. Snowflakes cling to the glass, and her reflection overlaps with the mountains, small, fragile, almost fading.
This woman. This girl. She survived what would have broken most people. And I swallow hard. I used her fear. Her silence. Her weakness.
For the first time since I was a teenager, guilt settles in my chest like a weight I can't push away. I remember her standing outside my room last night. More than an hour. Waiting.
Because I told her never to enter. Because I made rules like weapons and then pretended they were order. My fingers tighten on the steering wheel.
I have built empires. Destroyed rivals. Crushed men twice my age without blinking. But right now, I don't know how to undo the damage I've done to one woman sitting quietly beside me.
"You should've told me," I say suddenly. She turns her head a little. "About what?" "About your childhood," I say. My voice is rough.
"About the food. The illness. The pain." Her lips curve into a small, sad smile. "You never asked," she says softly. "And I didn't think it mattered."
It matters. It matters too much. The words stay trapped in my throat. Back at the resort, I don't let her walk alone.
Not because she can't, but because I won't. I hold her arm lightly as we enter the room. She doesn't resist. She doesn't lean away either. She just lets it happen, like she's used to letting the world decide for her.
I hate that. I hate that I'm part of the reason. "Sit," I tell her, gentler than usual. She obeys, settling on the sofa.
I place the medicine strip and water on the table in front of her. "Doctor's instructions," I say. "After food." She nods. I call room service myself.
Clear instructions. No spice. Light food. Soup. Fruits. When the call ends, I sit across from her. She fidgets with the edge of her sweater.
"You don't have to stay here," she says suddenly. "I know you have work." I look at her. "For the next three days," I say slowly, "there is nothing more important than you getting better."
Her eyes widen slightly. I don't know why I said it like that. I don't know why it felt true. She lowers her gaze again, fingers trembling just a little.
Something dark coils inside me. Not anger. Possession. The idea that the world took too much from her already, that I won't let it take more.
The door knocks. Food arrives. I make sure she eats. Not by shouting. Not by forcing. By sitting there. By watching. By staying.
She eats slowly and carefully, like someone afraid the food might disappear if she rushes. It makes my chest ache. Later, when she lies down to rest, I pull the blanket up to her shoulders myself.
She watches me with wide, uncertain eyes. "You don't have to," she begins. "Sleep," I cut in quietly. She does.
When she's asleep, really asleep, I sit on the chair beside the bed. I study her face. Too thin. Too pale. Dark circles under her eyes. And yet strong. So damn strong.
I think of my mother's words from this morning. "Please don't shout at her. She is scared of you sometimes." Sometimes. The word burns.
I don't remember falling asleep. But I wake sometime later with the room dim, snowlight filtering in through the curtains. She's still sleeping. Her breathing is calmer now.
I reach out, hesitating for a fraction of a second, then brush her hair back from her forehead. She feels warm. Not feverish. Just alive.
A thought crosses my mind, sharp, unwelcome, undeniable. I don't want to lose her. Not to illness. Not to fear. Not to herself.
I straighten abruptly. This is obsession, I tell myself. Control twisted into concern. Power masquerading as care. And yet, when she stirs slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, I stay.
I don't leave. Because for the first time, walking away feels impossible. Whatever this is, guilt, attachment, possession, something darker, it's already rooted inside me.
And I don't know how to pull it out. I only know one thing. No one touches her pain anymore. Not the world. Not the past. And not even me.